The home is warm and cozy. My sister-in-law Morgan’s decorations are subtle—a millennial nod to an ancient tradition. Her tree rises six feet from the floor and tastefully glistens in the living room. My little (bigger) brothers and their families stomp the snow off their boots as they come in. Piles of snow gear accumulate as the little ones embrace each other and set to unwrapping their presents. It’s Christmas Eve.
We adults gather to watch. We’re our own family satellites these days. Our get-togethers are rare and treasured.
We swap horror stories about our newfound responsibilities of homeownership and commiserate about flickering lights and leaky pipes. I think I see a plump figure peeking in through a window, but it’s gone when I look closer.
Anna and I have to leave early so we can stop at the store for an emergency run for dessert wine. We drive down snow-filled lanes. Lights and angels lead us in. It’s a quick, quiet moment for us in the car. The lights reflect off her hair, and her eyes dance from decoration to decoration.
Anna’s parents are waiting for us at our home when we arrive. Mark and I discuss the state of the roads due to our storms the week prior.
Our little tree valiantly stands in the corner, doing its very best to bring joy and season’s greetings. It does so wonderfully.
After dinner, we enjoy our dessert wine and pies made by Rita as we watch a movie about wonderful lives touching each other.
The evening wanes and night closes in. The yawns and stretches start. They shuffle contentedly into warm beds. I scroll on my phone and enjoy one more glass of dessert wine as I listen to the wind blow over the snow piles. It catches some of the snow and dusts the air with flakes. They dance and shine in the streetlights.
I close my eyes and begin to doze. Snow and Christmas lights dance around behind my eyelids. Gingerbread men dance like ballerinas.
Barumpapampum.
I startle to see a fat man in a red suit gingerly placing gifts under our small tree. He turns to me; I swear he tells me it’s perfect.
He snaps his fingers and suddenly, in one hand, he has a piece of pie and a glass of wine in the other. “I hope it’ll do,” I say. He winks at me and—ho ho ho!
I awaken with a start. The wind is howling outside. All around our neighborhood, kids are noisily rousing their parents and opening presents in a joyous cacophony of Yule. Anna rolls over and puts her arm around me. “I had the strangest dream about Santa last night,” I tell her. She kisses me on the lips; it tells me to get my ass up.
“Merry Christmas,” I think she says. We gather in the kitchen and begin to make breakfast. I make the coffee—too strong for everyone else, but perfect for me. It chases away the vestiges of the port wine from last night.
I put on swinging Christmas internet radio. Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters croon that it’s the most wonderful time of the year. We open meager and lovely gifts as the music sits comfortably in the background.
I go back to the bedroom to change for the day. I stop for a second.
On the nightstand, a used plate with pie crumbs and an empty wine glass sits. I accidentally step down onto a figurine on the floor. I stifle a curse and lean over to pick it up. Rudolph.
Huh.
I hear sleigh bells and I know—just know—it’s Santa getting back to the North Pole just in time for breakfast.
Storied By Josh 